


Your Lips Were Cold

by plumeria47



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:06:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9532898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumeria47/pseuds/plumeria47
Summary: Bucky ventures out into the snow with Steve for the first time.  Inspired by artwork.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet was 100% inspired by [this gorgeous artwork](http://goyath.deviantart.com/art/Your-lips-were-cold-597206836) of the same name. Credit: **Goyath**.

Snow continued to drift down from the sky, millions of tiny crystals floating down to join their brethren already piled inches deep on the streets of New York. Bucky sat curled in the window seat of their apartment, staring flatly out at the scene as he did every time it snowed.

Steve pulled his coat from its hook by the door. "I'm heading out to get some milk before they all sell out," he said as he pulled up the zip and wrapped a narrow white scarf around his neck. "Need anything, Buck?"

Bucky shook his head. "No thanks." His shoulders hunched as he wrapped his right arm tighter around his legs, pulling them a little closer to his chest.

It was always this way with Bucky when it snowed. In any other weather he could be happy or sad, full of memories or drawing a blank, but snow would reliably trigger a pensive, depressive episode. 

Steve understood; it was sort of like the way he felt about the ocean, especially if the water was cold. He could handle pools, but deliberately going into the ocean was still difficult for him to even consider, much less attempt. All he could see was the way the water exploded against the front of the Valkyrie, before he'd lost consciousness for sixty-eight years. 

Likewise, he knew that the white-blanketed world made Bucky think of Siberia, all that he'd suffered and all he'd done in his decades there. There was no chance of retriggering a Winter Soldier rampage – King T'Challa's remarkable scientists and doctors had seen to that – but it pained Steve nonetheless to see Bucky relive his darkest moments every time it snowed. 

He'd offered to move them somewhere warmer, or even to become a snowbird, but Bucky had refused, insisting that the only way to get better was to keep working at it. It was an admirable sentiment, but Steve would have done anything, including given away all his military back pay and lived as he did during the Depression - in a drafty hole of an apartment without two nickels to rub together - if it meant sparing his best friend this pain.

It was as he grabbed his keys off the counter and headed to the door that it happened.

"Steve?"

Steve paused with his hand on the doorknob, turning his head to look back at Bucky. "Yeah?"

As far as he could tell, Bucky hadn't moved. He wasn't even looking at Steve, but still staring out at the flakes blanketing the city.

"Could—" Bucky cleared his throat and tried again. "Would you wait a moment?"

"Sure thing, pal." Steve released the doorknob and stuffed his keys into his coat pocket. "What d'ya need?"

Bucky took a deep breath, then released it. "I want to come with you."

Steve's brow furrowed in concern. "You sure, Buck? You don't have to do it if you're not ready."

But Bucky just shook his head, stray strands of dark hair tumbling loose around his face. "I want to," he repeated.

"All right." Steve willed his heart to calm down but it was difficult. He was so immensely proud of Bucky for working through his issues. Jumping from 1944 to the 21st century had been an overwhelming experience – so much that was new. So much that was lost. But if it was hard for Steve to cope with his new life, it had to be a thousand times worse for Bucky, at least as far as guilt and trauma went. Still, they had always had each other's backs growing up, and Steve could no more give up on Bucky than Bucky had ever done for him, not after a thousand lost fistfights, the death of his ma, the countless illnesses. Never.

When Bucky had wrapped himself up in his black peacoat and shoved his feet into his boots, Steve put his hand back on the apartment doorknob. "Ready?" he asked, searching Bucky's face for any sign of regret.

Bucky took another steadying breath. "Ready."

It was a beautiful evening, with the snow falling thickly all around them, making everything glow in its own reflective luminescence. Most people seemed to have already taken refuge indoors, as few others were making their way through the streets, either on foot or by car, and the loudest sound was that of Steve and Bucky's boots squeaking in the snow with each step. They didn't speak, but it was a comfortable silence. They were the same, they were different, but they were still Steve and Bucky, and having Bucky by his side was as natural to Steve as breathing. If Bucky had been a dame - _a woman_ , Steve corrected himself – he might have threaded his fingers through Bucky's as they walked, but habits formed in the 1930s, when such things would earn you a beating if you were lucky and jail if you weren't, were not so easily overcome. 

They crossed one street and then another; it wasn't until after they'd turned the corner onto Oxford Street that Steve suddenly realized Bucky was no longer next to him.

"Buck?" He jerked around, heart in his throat, but – no, Bucky was only a few steps behind him. He was standing stock-still, looking up in silent awe.

Steve retraced his steps to stand next to Bucky again, then turned to see what had captured his attention. Lights. Strings of white Christmas lights were draped around and between the trees which fronted the brownstones on this block. 

"Pretty, aren't they?" he murmured. In truth, he'd seen them plenty of times this winter already, but there _was_ something special about seeing them against the sparkling snowy backdrop.

"Yeah," Bucky breathed. He seemed utterly enchanted by the spectacle, taking slow, measured steps until he stood directly beneath the lights, his eyes taking in every twinkle and every glittering flake. Steve admired the lights for a few moments but found the man beside him far more beautiful. Bucky had been able to smile and laugh again in recent months, but Steve hadn't seen him look so truly at peace, so full of wonder since before the War. 

"What is it?" Bucky had caught him staring.

Steve smiled. "Just enjoying watchin' you, that's all."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "If I'm the most entertaining thing you've got in your life, Steve, that's pretty sad."

"No, just the most beautiful." And he meant it. Even with one arm missing and his untidy hair tumbling out of its knot, Bucky was, at that moment, the most beautiful thing Steve had seen in a long, long time. He looked _alive_.

But Bucky just shook his head. "You're the handsome one these days," he said as he trailed the fingers of his right hand down Steve's cheek. "Bet you woulda had a hundred guys and gals falling over themselves if you hadn't stuck yourself with me."

Steve captured Bucky's hand with his left one, then, heedless of who might see them, bent to brush Bucky's fingers with his mouth. "Don't want anyone else except you," he murmured.

The ends of Bucky's generous mouth quirked up, his gaze fond. "Punk." 

"Jerk."

And then Bucky's arm was tight around his waist, drawing him in and crushing his mouth to Steve's. His lips were chapped against Steve's, his five o'clock shadow scraping Steve's skin, and Steve had never been happier. He wrapped one hand around Bucky's neck and the other around his waist, ensuring that neither of them could pull away. But how could Steve ever want to, not when he had everything he had ever wanted? It was Bucky – first, last and always – and nothing else mattered. 

Bucky's kiss was easing up now, from the desperate melding of their mouths to the more lazy flicks of his tongue against Steve's, the gentle worrying of Steve's bottom lip between his teeth, the soft caress of his lips, slanting comfortably against Steve's mouth.

After long moments they managed to part for air, their breath coming in soft white puffs between them as they gazed at one another. Bucky's blue-gray eyes seemed almost silver in the reflected glow from the snow and the lights, and Steve felt a fresh surge of thankfulness at the recognition and affection he saw in their depths. 

Slowly, gradually, Bucky seemed to remember they were on a public street; he released Steve and stepped back, absently rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture as familiar to Steve as his own name. 

"Your lips were cold," Bucky said, as if Steve needed an explanation – or possibly an apology – for his actions.

But Steve just smiled and took Bucky's right hand in his left as they continued down the street. "Sure, Buck. Whatever you say."

He loved these beautiful winter moments, when everything was silent and crisp, but Steve was already contemplating a summertime trip to the beach with Bucky. A dip in the ocean might be just the thing.


End file.
